Basho's poetry. Zen Buddhist texts. Philosophy—Nietzsche, Kant, Confucius. Italian opera histories. Books about European art and Japanese aesthetics.
“Her personal bookshelf still reflects her devotion to Kenji.”
Hiro's shoulder lifted in a tiny shrug. "Yuki's always read what he read.”
“I bet.” I took some more pictures. “Why do you think she does it?”
“I believe that Yuki guesses that if she mirrors Kenji enough, he'll see her."
"See her how?"
He didn't say anything at first. His gaze drifted toward the nightstand.
I followed it.
The framed photo there showed a much younger Yuki, maybe nine, in a too-big sweater, Kenji's hand resting on her head. She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking at him like he'd hung the moon and was about to hang a second one just to impress her.
Wow.
"Yuki doesn't want his protection," Hiro’s jaw clenched. "She wants his devotion, so she gives him hers."
But could that make her a spy?
I tapped my finger against the phone. “People who aren’t true bookworms. . .they design their bookshelves different.”
“How?”
“They curate them. Displaying certain books is a kind of performance. It says, ‘This is who I want you to think I am.’” I reached out and my fingers hovered near the spines without touching. “She wants Kenji to walk in and think, ‘Yuki is so much like me. We are practically the same. She’s my soulmate.’”
I moved my hand away, and took more photos of the bookshelf and the nightstand.
We moved farther in.
I assessed the small writing desk. On it was neatly stacked stationery, a vintage fountain pen, and an Italian language textbook lying open with a page marked. Little sticky notes dotted the margins in delicate handwriting—vocabulary, verb conjugations, careful circles of effort around every phrase.
“She’s trying to learn Italian. That’s got to be something outside of Kenji.” I looked at Hiro. “Right?”
“Maybe, but Kenji likes Italian operas.”
“Hmmm.” I went to the vanity and took in the collection of antique combs and hairpins. “No makeup or jewelry. Just a display.”
Every antique comb and hairpin was displayed like museum artifacts—Japanese lacquer, mother-of-pearl, delicate tortoiseshell carvings—arranged in a perfect gradient of color and age.
Too perfect.
Too still.
No makeup.
No brushes.
No moisturizer.
Not even a smudge on the mirror.
“Collecting antique combs is interesting. . .”
Hiro watched me but didn’t interrupt.
